


The Durin and the Deathless

by thebakerstboyskeeper



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, HRBB14, M/M, Reincarnation, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebakerstboyskeeper/pseuds/thebakerstboyskeeper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bilbo set out to bring Thorin back from the Halls of Waiting, he never thought of the price.</p><p>The curse the Valar laid upon him is immortality. And so he watches the world and its peoples change, tied to Thorin with the string of fate.</p><p>But Thorin's doom is far worse. For he was cursed with reincarnation, destined to always find Bilbo wherever he is, though he does not remember the Hobbit.</p><p>Every meeting is different, but it always ends with Thorin's death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Durin and the Deathless

“Sir? Excuse me, sir, are you alright?”

Bilbo struggles toward consciousness. _That voice._ He knows it. Without a shadow of a doubt, he knows it. He has to open his eyes.

The brow that meets his blurry gaze is familiar. He blinks frantically to clear his vision. It worked. The Valar have granted him this. Bilbo has to see him. He has to know it is truly him.

“Thorin,” escapes his lips in a groan. Why does his body hurt so?

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know this Thorin you speak of. Is he a family member?”

Finally, Bilbo can see clearly and _Thorin_ is . . .

He blinks once more in confusion.

The brow may be familiar, but that’s where it ends. The royal features he knows so well are lean and too . . . un-dwarvish for Thorin. His frame, currently leaning over Bilbo, is long and lank, like the men they saw in Lake Town. This cannot be his dwarf.

No, he’d know those eyes anywhere. Those eyes belong to Thorin, even if they are full of confusion and show no signs of recognition.

“Thorin?” he asks, waiting for this cruel joke to be over.

“Where can I find this Thorin for you, sir?”

There it is: the tone of impatience, as if Bilbo is wasting his precious time. He’s not unfamiliar with it, having been on the receiving end of it quite a lot during the beginning of the journey. With a great heave, Bilbo tries to sit up. His head spins and everything aches. There’s a steady hand at his back, helping support him as he gathers his bearings. Once his head stops spinning, the questions begin to run rampant through his brain.

Where is he? Why does Thorin look like a man? Why doesn’t he recognize Bilbo? What if he’s not Thorin? Where are all the others? What happened to Erebor?

Bibo shakes his head. He’s not going to get any answers sitting in . . . mud, for Valar’s sake, and remaining mute. He tries to stand, giving his feet a glare in a silent command to behave.

His cry of distress makes Thorin-not-Thorin flinch away.

For those are not Hobbit feet that meet his gaze. They are decidedly un-hairy and small. So small. Ordinary and man-ish. He touches a tentative finger to them, making sure they’re real.

He may faint. For a second time in front of Thorin. He’s no respectable hobbit with feet that look like this.

Thorin helps him when he scrabbles into a standing position, holding his arm this time. His brows are furrowed, blue eyes concerned, and he needs to stop looking at Bilbo like that. It’s doing nothing to help.

“Are you ill? Do you have the plague?”

“Plague?” Bilbo sputters. “Of course I don’t! I am--”

He looks around himself, searching for anything familiar. There’s nothing and the more he looks, the more he notices his surroundings are curiously proper Hobbit sized.

_That’s not right._

A quick glance down - he chokes back another dismayed noise at the sight of his bare feet - shows the ground is just that much farther away than he is used to. And when several children rush by, they are _shorter_ than he is.

The last thing he remembers is the wet squelch of mud and a dark frown above him as the darkness swallows him.

 

~~

 

_"You! You! You miserable hobbit! You undersized-burglar!”_

_"But sad or merry, I must leave it now.”_

_"I love you."_

This time, Bilbo's eyes open to the all too familiar sight of a canvas tent above him. The cot he's been laid on is not quite comfortable, but it beats waking up in mud.

He forces his too big body to sit up, hiding his face in his hands. He might have believed it all to be a terrible dream were it not for the naked feet at the end of his legs.

“What a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Bilbo Baggins,” he mutters to himself.

And what a mess it is. Quite inexplicably, he has landed himself in a town of Men, has become a Man himself, and has come across Thorin as not a Dwarf, but a Man as well. How did they get here?

Bilbo remembers Thorin dying. He remembers . . . _Fili. And Kili._ The pain of watching all three of them laid to rest within the stone of the mountain. Saying farewell to his friends because it was too painful to stay, too hard to see the shadows of what might have been within those slowly awakening corridors. The lonely road home with Gandalf. The pitying looks of Beorn and Elrond when they saw his grief. And, worst of all, he remembers the echoing emptiness of Bag End, how it wasn’t the home he had been expecting to return to. It was that which had driven him from his comfortable smial and back to Rivendell.

And then . . .

He’d known Lord Elrond was concerned. He heard the whispers amongst the inhabitants of Imladris of the poor halfling who had lost his mind. That’s where the memories end. Bilbo knows Gandalf was coming at the request of Elrond and that he had to make his move before the wizard arrived.

_But did I do it?_

He had been planning to take a chance, to appeal to the Valar for Thorin’s life after finding some lore in the Elvish library that he now can’t remember. Whether it would be in exchange for his own life, as penance for the dwarf’s greed to be denied his rest a little while longer, or even as a simple request by a grieving child of Yavanna, Bilbo had been prepared to bargain. But he doesn’t remember succeeding.

Still, he must have done something because here he is.

“Good. You’re awake.”

He startles at the familiar voice, turning to find the source. Thorin - _please, let it really be him_ \- is standing in the opening of the tent, two crude plates with food in his hands. Bilbo nods, curling in on himself. It’s all too many questions and not enough answers.

“I . . . I brought you some food,” Thorin says, holding one of the plates out.

To Bilbo’s relief, that seems to be one thing that hasn’t changed. His Hobbit appetite rears its head and growls at the smell of food nearby. He accepts the plate with quiet thanks and tries to not watch as Thorin drags a stool closer to the cot, sitting to eat his own meal.

They eat in an uncomfortable silence, both trying to not let on that they’re surreptitiously studying one another when the other isn’t looking. The few times their gazes meet unintentionally forces the awkward scrambling of attention back to the food in their hands. Bilbo quietly mourns the lack of proper silverware in between glancing at Thorin’s furrowed brow and unimpressed scowl.

He’s staring at his empty plate for what feels like an eternity before he hears Thorin set his own plate down. The stool legs scrape across the ground and Bilbo finds himself looking up into all too familiar eyes.

“You asked for a Thorin. Where is he?”

_By the Green Lady, how is he supposed to answer that?_

“Er . . . well . . . are there any Hobbits nearby?”

That wasn’t at all what Bilbo meant to say, but it’s the question that has pushed itself to the front of his mind. The confusion that passes across the other man’s face confirms just how unhinged Bilbo must appear.

“Hobbits? The last Hobbit died over one hundred and fifty years ago.”

Bilbo’s veins turn to ice.

“What about the Dwarves? Where are they?” he asks a bit frantically.

“The last of them have secluded themselves within that Lonely Mountain of theirs. Word is their race will not last much longer. They have no women left.”

Unaware of the alarmed look he is receiving, Bilbo’s head falls into his hands. Hobbits and Dwarves extinct; what terrible sort of place has he landed himself in?

“When was Erebor reclaimed?”

“Erebor?”

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo supplies, not looking up.

There’s a pause, and then, “Near six hundred years ago.”

To his credit, Thorin doesn’t react to the muffled whimper that escapes. Bilbo blinks away his tears behind the safety of his hands. Losing Thorin and his nephews had been bad enough, now he has dying and dead races, and a human Thorin who doesn’t recognize him. This isn’t even close to what he imagined would happen.

“Is your family scholarly? Do you study the other races?”

“What?” Bilbo asks, finally dropping his hands and turning to face Thorin.

"You were distressed when I found you. I only assume you lost your family. And since you were asking after Hobbits, I thought perhaps they were scholars, maybe I could . . ."

"Oh," Bilbo says, suddenly feeling how exhausted and wrung out this news has made him. "If what you say is true, then I have no family left."

 

~~

 

Thorin had excused himself then, mumbling in embarrassment and taking the empty plates with him. Not knowing what to do with himself, Bilbo had carefully trodden on his newly sensitive feet to the opening Thorin had disappeared through.

He had thought to explore his surroundings, find some sort of sign that this is still Arda, but the scene that meets his eyes is uncomfortably familiar. Tents are stationed every few feet, people scurrying to and fro, fires serving as gathering points for the men to converse at, horses, the sound of armor clanging together . . .

Bilbo wonders if he's landed himself in the middle of another war.

But the longer he sits, curled up against the outside of Thorin's tent, the more he notices that there is no tense anticipation. Everyone seems surprisingly relaxed, genuine laughter ringing through the air every so often. And while everyone's clothes seem to be the same style, the armor is so varying that it's clear this is no army. What it is, though, Bilbo has no idea.

"So, you're the boy Sir Thomas has taken in."

Bilbo jumps at the voice so near to him; he had been so engrossed he didn't even notice their approach. Bristling at the insinuation that he is merely a boy after all he's been through, he turns, pushing himself to his feet.

"I'll have you know--"

He freezes, his eyes meeting dark ones that belong to . . .

"Bofur!"

The man blinks at him and says, "Not quite. Sir Balfour."

Bilbo takes a step back, taking in the sight of his friend. Just like with Thorin, the short but stocky build of Dwarf is gone. This Bofur is a bit more muscular than this Thorin, though it is hidden beneath a fine tunic and trousers and light armor atop that. But the dark, mischievous eyes, twitching mustache, and curling tails of hair are all Bofur, if slightly less hairy. And taller.

"Bilbo Baggins. At your service."

His only response is Bofur's eyes surveying him up and down.

"Where is Thor-- Thomas?"

" _Sir_ Thomas is in the sword ring. Most likely defeating everyone he comes against. Said I'd help you out." He waves a hand over his shoulder. "My squire Boyd will see to you."

Bilbo leans around Bofur’s - no, Balfour's - frame and finds another familiar face staring over a bundle in his arms.

While he's not as gigantic as Bilbo remembers, this Bombur is still rotund. He smiles brightly, his cheeks puffing out with the gesture. Bilbo finds himself returning the smile, glad to find a somewhat friendly face in this confusing mess. Bombur is young, probably a tween or just come of age, but despite that, his ginger hair has followed him into this life. He wears it short, his facial hair full but not growing past his chin.

"If ya want to come with me, you can 'ave a bath and some clean clothes."

"Thank you. I'd very much like that," Bilbo says, stepping carefully around Bofur and following Bombur-Boyd. He feels the first man's eyes on him until they are out of sight.

 

~~

 

Bilbo is finally clean and pulling on dry, fresh clothes. The long tunic and loose, ankle-length trousers are so very different from his Hobbit-ish clothes. He misses them with a hollow ache, wishing for waistcoats and neckties and handkerchiefs. The constant chatter from Bombur, who has sat on the river bank the entire time with his eyes averted as he mends some garments, is pleasant and helps Bilbo gather a vague picture of the world he is now a part of. A king and a queen, nobles, it's not so very different apart from the fact that much of the magic and "mystical" races - as Bombur called them - has gone from the world. It makes Bilbo incredibly sad, but there's not much he can do, if the results of his previous attempt to bring Thorin back are anything to go by.

He settles into the foliage next to his friend, forgoing the boots handed to him in favor of wiggling his toes in the earth. As if he would ever wear shoes.

"Sir Boyd," he says once the other man has paused. "What exactly is going on here?"

"Oh, no, no!" Bombur exclaims. "M'not a sir! There's not a drop of noble blood in me! Just Boyd. S'why I'm Sir Balfour's squire. Gotta have someone to serve him."

Bilbo muses over that as a comfortable silence descends on them. Bofur being a noble suits him; the Hobbit had always thought the Ur family should have been Dwarven nobles. Their loyalty and courage should have been enough to make them so, if nothing else. Though Thorin being noble is no surprise. He wonders if the other members of the Company are here and what they're doing. He has a sneaking suspicion that it's only these three who have made it into this new world; though how he knows that is a mystery.

"So, why are we in the middle of what looks like a battle encampment?" Bilbo asks, tossing a glance back to where he can see the tent tops in the fading light.

"Why, it's the start of the tournaments! Knights from afar gather to compete and travel all over the country to see who will go to London to become the champion! All of cheapside and even most of the nobility come to watch. It’s a big to-do. Sir Thomas is the champion and he's set to win again! Sir Balfour tries, but he's only beaten Sir Thomas twice. There's no bad blood, of course. Can't be when you've grown up together. Now, Sir Smeagol on the other hand--"

"In sword fighting?"

"No, no, the jousting!"

Whatever that is, Bilbo has no idea, but asking may cause more questions than answers, and questions he can’t answer at that. Instead, he listens to Bombur describe the thrill of watching and cheering for your favorites, mentioning that someone has only died once, so it can't be that dangerous.

Bilbo half listens, staring out across the water without a clue as to what he should do now.

"Well, should be gettin' back. Dinner to cook and all. Ready, Bilbo? Aren't you going to put on your shoes?"

They make their way back to the tents, the offending boots clutched in Bilbo's hand. He thanks Bombur for accompanying him and supplying him with spare clothes, all the while thinking that “Boyd” doesn't really suit the former Dwarf.

Both Bofur and Thorin are sat by a small fire outside Thorin's tent when they arrive. Bombur sets his mending aside and quickly starts on a meal. The speculative gazes of the other two make Bilbo uncomfortable, as he is the object of their focus. Without any idea of how to speak to this Thorin, Bilbo busies himself by helping Bombur with the food.

He can only hear faint mutterings as the two nobles talk quietly, their eyes darting over toward Bilbo and Bombur occasionally. Bilbo does his best to ignore them and answer Bombur's questions about himself. It's nearly impossible to be vaguely truthful, but how exactly is he supposed to explain his situation when they believe all magic no longer exists? His hobbies and favorite foods, yes. Resurrecting Dwarves and changing races, no.

The four of them eat large bowls of thick stew around the fire with very little conversation. Bombur is the most talkative, but even he seems to sense the tension and cuts back on his rambling. Bilbo pushes the vegetables around with his wooden spoon, all too aware of the searching glances Bofur is giving him and the fact that Thorin is pointedly not looking at him.

They listen to the faint strains of music from the other side of the encampment after they’ve finished. No one speaks and the silence moves past tense into downright uncomfortable.

“Best call it a night. Busy day tomorrow. Come along, Boyd. Let’s leave Sir Thomas to rest.”

Thorin doesn’t say a word as the others leave, but Bilbo wishes them a quiet goodnight as they pass, wondering if it is going to be a goodbye as well. Once they’re gone, he looks down at his toes, wondering what he is going to do. No welcome has been extended, no sign of recognition given. Is Bilbo supposed to watch from afar? Or be doomed to wander, knowing Thorin is alive somewhere on the earth? Neither sounds very appealing, but Thorin’s face is expressionless, the fire creating harsh shadows against the even harsher planes of his lean face. Bilbo takes the opportunity to soak the sight in, particularly those eyes, though he misses his Dwarf fiercely. It takes an unimaginable amount of courage to tear himself away and stand, but he does it. And ignores the feeling of his heart ripping itself to shreds as he does so.

“Thank you . . . for your help . . . and the food. And the clothes. And the help. I’ll just . . . be on my way, shall I? Good luck to you . . . tomorrow. And after . . .”

Bilbo would never admit he’s stalling or that he’s waiting for one glance of acknowledgement, but he is. When none comes, he steels his nerves and turns to go. He only makes it a few steps before that voice calls out quietly.

“You could stay.”

Bilbo spins so fast it makes him dizzy.

“Excuse me?”

Thorin finally - finally - lifts his gaze from the flames dancing in front of him, leaning back slightly on the stool he’s sitting on. His sharp eyes pierce Bilbo, glowing in the light of the fire as he studies the smaller man.

“My squire left. Ran away is more like it. Apparently I was too demanding of him. You have no family and nothing to return to and I would be able to provide enough for you.”

Thorin’s arms are folded across his chest, familiar glower in place as his voice takes on that kingly tone. Bilbo had always imagined him using it on unruly council members when they refused to give the Dwarven king his way. He had heard the Company addressed with it when they bickered over dissenting opinions. Thorin knew how to command his followers and ensure there was no room for questioning. That hasn’t deserted him in this form. For a moment, Bilbo can see the Dwarf Thorin so clearly; his long, silver streaked hair free down his shoulders, braids hanging proudly about his ears, beard starting to grow out from its mourning length, fur and armor and Orcrist in place. He can’t help the sad smile that curls his lips, even though it appears to confuse Thorin. Bilbo blinks and he’s staring at the man, Sir Thomas, with his short black hair, no sign of silver nor a beard. But he’s undeniably . . .

_Thorin._

“I think I can do that.”

Thorin nods. “You have to tend the horses, meals, linens, and be present at the games. Boyd will help you, since he’s done it most his life. I will provide food, travel, clothes, and you will have a small wage for whatever else you might need.”

Bilbo approaches the fire once more, holding out his hand.

“I accept.”

Thorin eyes the offered appendage suspiciously before muttering under his breath and taking it in a firm grip.

“We’ll have to get a cot for you tomorrow. I only have spare blankets for tonight.”

And Bilbo is left to bank the fire as Thorin disappears inside the tent. After casting the cursed shoes a glance, Bilbo follows him inside, accepting the pile of rough blankets and making a nest across from Thorin’s cot in the enclosed space. The lantern is doused and Bilbo curls up, finally feeling some measure of comfort.

Yes, he thinks as he listens to the steady and very alive breaths coming from Thorin, if this is how it has to be, he can do this.

 

~~

 

Bilbo can’t do this.

The washing and cooking he can do. It’s not anything he hasn’t done before. The horses, however . . . suffice it to say Thorin’s beasts and he don’t get along very well. He’s already been nipped and his bare toes trodden on twice. And that was before he had to muck out the stalls.

Luckily, Bombur is there, fighting back his amusement as he shows Bilbo how everything is done. The shoes are mentioned again, but Bilbo still refuses to force the contraptions on his feet. After the horses are fed and their temporary stalls are cleaned, Bilbo learns how to arm them for the joust. He’s finally managed to get one set to Bombur’s satisfaction when Thorin appears in shining silver armor, helmet tucked under his arm. His blue eyes sweep over his mount and the brief glance toward Bilbo’s feet is enough to send him running to find the discarded boots. His gait is awkward as he hurries back toward the stables, his mind rebelling against the fact that his feet are confined. But the satisfied nod he receives makes it just a tiny bit more bearable.

Thorin then leads them to an arena. The horse struggles against Bilbo leading it with the reins, nearly knocking him over with a head butt at one point. Bilbo casts it an unimpressed glare before Bombur - who has accompanied them to help the new squire - takes over and is able to lead the beast calmly. As they approach, Bilbo can hear people cheering and yelling Sir Thomas’s name, waving banners as they come into sight. Amongst them, tucked away in protected niches, are richly dressed men and women, more demure in their applause. Bilbo can make out Bofur sitting amongst them.

He’s shown how to help Thorin into the saddle and tuck the guards over his legs. Then, as Thorin secures his helmet, Bilbo is passed a “lance” by Bombur. He staggers under the weight, grunting in surprise as he trips his way toward his master. Thorin’s hand is waiting and he hefts it with little effort, his eyes darting toward Bilbo through the slit in the helmet.

“Good luck?” Bilbo says.

With a nod, Thorin nudges his horse into a run, the flag waving in the middle of the field his signal to start. Bilbo turns to watch, Bombur cheering at his side.

Whatever he’s expecting, it’s certainly not what happens. His little Hobbit spirit recoils as the two men hurtle toward each other on either side of a wooden fence. They both tilt the lances toward their opponent and strike true, wood splintering and bodies jerking under the force. Thorin raises the remains of his lance once he’s reached the other side, saluting the crowd before he trots back toward Bilbo and Bombur. The latter congratulates him, but Bilbo is still reeling. This is done as sport?

He stays by Thorin’s side all day, wincing as Thorin takes hits and huffing at the horse when it is uncooperative. Bombur has to leave them to help Bofur, but Bilbo manages well enough on his own. He stands with Thorin in the stands between rounds, fetches food and whatever else Thorin needs, and tries not to stare at the other man too much. At the end of the day, after they have secured a new cot to place in the tent, Thorin even gives him a gruff “you did well today,” before they both collapse in exhaustion.

The next two days are the same. Bilbo cooks and washes soiled clothing in between tending the horses and saddling one for the games. He watches the joust, unable to determine the rules for himself, but trying nonetheless. When he asks questions, Thorin answers them, but there isn’t much else in the way of conversation between them. Bombur keeps him company when he can and Bilbo contents himself with learning about this new Thorin, watching his interactions and helping him get through his day-to-day life.

And when Thorin is crowned both the jousting and sword champion at the end of the tournament, Bilbo cheers the loudest unashamedly. While it’s not perfect, Thorin doesn’t remember him, and neither of them is their proper race, Thorin is alive and Bilbo is with him.

That’s enough for now.

 

~~

 

They’ve been on the road for several quiet days when the questions start.

“How did you lose your family?”

Bilbo is caught mid chew, his eyes darting to where Thorin is watching him from across the fire. He can tell the other man some of the truth, but how to explain the rest? No one will accept a lack of details for long. He must create some kind of history for himself.

But maybe if he stays as close to the truth as possible, Thorin might remember?

“My parents died when I came of age. My father from illness and my mother from heartbreak not too long after. I suppose they couldn’t live without each other,” Bilbo says.

“Was it your siblings you lost recently then?”

“In a way, yes. They took me in and . . . well, we shared in a great adventure together. You can’t help but become a family after that.”

“And where are they now?”

Bilbo meets Thorin’s eyes. It’s hard to discern anything in the dark, but he thinks he sees some sort of compassion there.

“Dead. I was separated from the remaining members after I watched . . . after some of them died in battle.”

He stops himself there, choking back the memories of Fili and Kili’s broken bodies, of Thorin covered in bandages and taking his last breath.

_He’s right here, right in front of you._

“It’s been so long,” Bilbo continues, thinking of his Dwarves and their dying race, “that I’m sure they’re all gone now.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Thorin says gruffly after a moment of awkward silence.

“Thank you.”

The other man stands abruptly and retreats into their makeshift camp. Bilbo watches him go, leaning closer to the warmth of the fire. He may have Thorin here, but for all the recognition and emotion Bilbo doesn’t receive, he may as well be travelling with a king who finds his Hobbit burglar a useless burden all over again.

The cycle, he thinks, is repeating itself.

Hopefully this time, it ends differently.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this chapter was going to be longer, but I split it into two parts. I wasn't ready for the sadness yet. Especially with BotFA looming so close.
> 
> This is part of the Hobbit Reverse Big Bang 2014 and inspired by m-sock's brilliant art!
> 
> http://m-sock.tumblr.com/post/105049296997/art-by-m-sock-rest-your-weary


End file.
